Fine Things
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: He hears it in her voice, every now and then. It's a hesitancy. A quietness. An… uncertainty, as if she is momentarily uncomfortable within her own skin and doesn't know how to explain what he's done wrong... A new relationship brings problems, but Sherlock is determined to stay the course and make his Molly happy... communication, sexyfuntimes, note the rating...
1. Fine Alabaster

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, posted from tumblr. Written because I can't seem to sleep…

* * *

 **FINE ALABASTER**

* * *

He hears it in her voice, every now and then.

It's a hesitancy. A quietness. An… uncertainty, as if she is momentarily uncomfortable within her own skin. As if she is momentarily uncomfortable in her, well, in her Mollyness, with the very thing which he loves about her more than anything else.

It discomfits Sherlock in a way he can't quite describe.

Whenever he asks her if everything's alright she always smiles. Nods, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Before he can probe further however she will kiss him, pull him to her. Whisper that she wants him now, she wants him so badly, and to his embarrassment he always acquiesces. He pushes her beneath him. Pushes himself into her. She fills his arms with her presence and his mouth with her kisses and soon he's too helpless and gasping with his own passion to remember his misgivings-

And then, some days or hours later, it will happen again: He'll pull her to him and for a moment she'll stiffen. He'll kiss her hard, in the way she swears she likes, and just for a moment he's alone in that kiss. He's left behind, and he finds he doesn't like it.

 _Sentiment's of no use, it seems, if he's in it on his own._

Not being used to intimacy- and being even worse at talking about it- he finds himself unable to speak of his feelings, unable even to explain them.

He might ask John or Mary but he hasn't the words and he hasn't the bravery and besides, he's not even certain anything's really wrong.

And then one night he sees her with Anderson and a couple of the Scotland Yard techs. He sees the dark-haired man corner her, make joking pass upon joking pass. The look he sees in her eyes as she laughs along and smiles is exactly the look he sees when he lies her down beneath him, and the realisation makes him feel a little sick to his stomach. He has to leave.

He is not subtle about it, but then he never is.

He pushes past John, safe in the knowledge that Mary and Donovan are both still in the Morgue and neither will permit the situation to get out of hand. Knowing too that Molly can handle herself with an idiot like Anderson; she's been handling such imbeciles for years.

Neither this belief nor his exit help him though; he ends up sitting on the fire escape near the roof, sneaking a cigarette and trying to work out what on Earth's the matter with him (or with Molly. _Please God,_ he finds himself thinking, _don't let anything be wrong with Molly_ ). He sits there, puzzling through, trying to understand, and as he does so he hears footsteps on the gravel. Looks up to see Mary walking over to him, a look of stomach-churning understanding on her face.

"She's ok," she begins, settling down beside him without bothering to ask. "Molly can handle them- But that's not why you're up here, is it?"

And she smiles in that carefree way she has, tilts her face up to the sun as if they're not talking about much of anything. Sherlock frowns, trying to work out what he should do; He suspects that his speaking of this to Mary rather than Molly might be a Bit Not Good. And yet, what use is he to her if he can't help? He's a detective, it's what he does: He sees mysteries and solves them. He eliminates threats. But the woman he's sleeping with- _the woman he's slowly coming to accept he's in love with_ \- she's a riddle he can't solve, and he suspects it's hurting her. In fact, it's hurting the both of them.

That, he realises with a start, is not something he finds acceptable and when he finds something unacceptable he deals with it. Decisively.

So he clears his throat. Grinds out the cigarette on the metal strut beside him. He stares at the smoking stub, concentrates on it so that he can say what he's about to. (It will be easier if he doesn't have to look Mary in the face).

"She's… She's unhappy, Mary," he says quietly. "At least, I think she's unhappy. Not always, with me- Which I know wouldn't be possible, nobody's always happy and certainly not in my presence, but I want Molly to be happy and she's not and-"

"Examples, Sherlock."

Mary speaks over him, her voice is calm. Soothing in its matter-of-factness.

He risks a look at her from the corner of his eye and she's looking out over the skyline, her eyes far away.

He finds this immensely helpful.

"I can't- I can't explain it," he answers haltingly. "It's like… It's like she goes away for a minute, sometimes. Sometimes when we're together, it's like she has to go off on her own though she's still right in front of me." He sighs, rakes an impatient hand through his hair.

 _His hard-drive is running appallingly slow, he can't help but think._

"It's not that I don't- I wouldn't mind her going," he says eventually. "She's free to do as she likes. It's just that I think, I think maybe _I'm_ causing it, maybe I'm making her go away and I don't want to or know how to stop it-"

"Have you asked her?" Mary asks and he nods.

"She says it's fine," he answers morosely. "She always says it's fine." He grimaces, glowers down at his spent cigarette and to his surprise he hears Mary give a small snort. Anger sparks, and with it a suspicion that somehow his Molly's being insulted; He half-rises, about to demand Mary explain herself, but when he looks at her he finds eyes that are level. Understanding, rather than hard. It takes the anger out of him and he's not sure why.

A beat as they sit together in the sunshine.

For some reason he finds himself clenching his free hand ever more tightly beside his hip.

"It's not fair," Mary says eventually, her voice quiet. "That's the trouble with it: It's not fair on you blokes, we know that. You ask can you help and we don't let you. But sometimes "fine," is all us girls are allowed, y'know?"

Sherlock does not know, but again he hears that snort.

A cynical smile twists her lip and it occurs to him how well Mary knows him.

"She should tell you," she says, "but it sounds like she doesn't know how to. She loves you, maybe, and she's afraid of how you'll take it. Maybe she's afraid it'll change the way you see her, make you think she's a bitch and run for the hills…"

Now it's Sherlock's turn to snort. "I would never think that Molly is a bitch," he says. "I'm far too clever to entertain so ludicrous a thought as that-"

"You know that and I know that, but maybe Molly doesn't." Mary's smile is wry. "Maybe she doesn't know that you've noticed, or maybe she doesn't know that you care. Maybe she's been hearing that she has to keep her mouth shut about some things as long as she's been alive and she's too afraid of losing you to push it and test the theory- It could be a million things."

Sherlock does not find that answer reassuring.

Unfortunately, one look at Mary's face tells him it's the only answer he's going to get.

"So what do I do then?" he asks once the silence has stretched out longer than even he's comfortable with. "Just continue as we are and say nothing?" He frowns, stares at his hands. "I don't - I don't think I can do that."

Mary's expression is kind though. Knowing. When she looks at him like this he understands exactly why John fell for her so hard. "Good God no," she says. "You start doing that and who knows where it'll end: Moriarty would be running the country if you went about solving your problems like that."

And despite himself, Sherlock smiles. She matches him.

For a moment they're just two friends, sitting in the sunshine and having a chat about nothing at all.

"No," she says, "No, you go to Molly, and you tell her that you want to know what's bothering her. You tell her that you'll wait until she's ready to tell you, but you know something is." She shrugs. "And then you wait."

Sherlock's smile dims. "You wait? For what?"

Again that wry smile. "You wait for her to be ready to tell you, genius."

Though he doesn't like this answer, he knows it's the right one. The wise one. The only one.

He also knows, just by reading Mary's expression, that he doesn't need to say any of that out loud.

So he gets to his feet and helps Mary stand. He follows her back to the Morgue and when he gets there he leans in close to Molly, whispers an apology to her at his disappearance. He also elbows Anderson out of her personal space and offers to get her a coffee. Takes her hand in his, just for a moment, before he goes. That night he'll take her to Baker Street and ask her where she goes when she slips away from him, what's wrong…

He'll also tell her he'll wait until she's ready to explain it.

She'll curl herself up in his arms and smile, and eventually she'll tell him. Eventually… Eventually…

Eventually she'll trust him enough and that's worth waiting for, of that he has no doubt.


	2. Raw Silk

_Dsiclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine._

* * *

 **RAW SILK**

* * *

She starts small. Shy.

Her hand on his shoulder, slowing him. Gentling his grip. A whispered, "please," as he kisses her roughly , holds her close, and when he looks at her she shakes her head a little. Bites her lip.

It looks like the words are hard to say.

"Not like that," she says and her cheeks blush dark. Her heart is thudding in her chest, he can feel it, and she looks... she looks so lovely he thinks he might break. "It's... It's a little rough..." she murmurs. "I know you're not trying to be, but you said you wanted me to say and, and,..."

She drops her gaze, hides for a moment behind the veil of her lovely long hair, now tussled by Sherlock's hands. By his passion.

He smiles down at her, relieved at her communicating and when she sees it she lights up, a soft glow. (With her, it's always a soft glow). He can see the relief in her eyes at his reaction and it makes something fearsome- something protective- coil in his chest.

 _He wonders what has made her so fearful of being honest, when she should have nothing at all to fear._

So he holds his hands out to her. Lets her take the lead. "Show me," he says simply and to his surprise she takes his hands. Curls their fingers together and kisses his knuckles before releasing him.

She keeps her eyes on him the entire time.

With slow deliberation she lies back. Stretches herself out for him. She takes his palms and presses them down to lift her breasts, the heels of his hands kneading her, his fingers splayed against the nipples. Brushing against them but not squeezing, not pinching, as he had been before.

She lets out a soft sigh of pleasure as he does it and Sherlock swears he feels the jolt of it go straight to his cock.

 _The sensation is exquisite._

"Like this?" he asks and when she nods he presses upwards. Pushes those small, perfect mounds of white together until she sighs in pleasure again. She pulls his head to her; He lays his cheek against her breasts, lets their warmth and softness soothe him. The scent of her skin fills his nose and her sweat salts his tongue. She feels so very small, there beneath him that he has to kiss her lips. Her collarbone. The puckering, rosy tips of her nipples, their flesh sweet against his mouth...

She gives a gasp and instinctively her hands come up, tangling in his hair and making him shiver. "So good," she murmurs, "Oh it's so good... I wish I could have you do that forever..."

Sherlock finds he wishes that too, but the words feel clottish- barbaric- in his mouth, so he settles for kissing her instead.

* * *

She grows bolder as time passes, her trust in him growing.

Having never before been considered trust-worthy, Sherlock is surprised by how much the sentiment effects him.

But when she sighs into his mouth- "Just like that, love,"- and when she moans his name as he touches her _just so_ , he finds a sense of fulfilment he hadn't considered possible before.

It poleaxes him, to be honest.

Because it's not the sex, he thinks, it's the fact that the sex is with _her._ It's not just trust, it's that it's _her_ trust. Endorphins and adrenaline and the will to propagate can only do so much... The missing ingredient in all his former amorous experiments had clearly been the lack of the right partner, he thinks as she moans beneath him.

 _Now he understands what possesses people to claim there's only one person for them_.

For with her lithe, slim legs tucked up high against his waist and her beautiful, dark eyes staring up into his he feels centred. Present.

He feels... seen, in a way that's both unsettling and yet somehow very, very safe.

Sometimes though, it's too much, her gaze, and he finds he has to look away. Has to hide from it, because they see too much of him and he's not sure he can stand that.

Whenever that happens though, Molly holds him closer. If he presses his face to her neck or shoulder she doesn't stop moving, just slows her pace. Gentles it. She tangles her hands in his hair and murmurs that she's here now, that she has him, and her very acceptance makes it all alright.

Her acceptance makes him feel like he could do anything.

On those nights their lovemaking runs long and slow and breathless, and yet somehow it's never enough. He doubts it ever will be.

They come apart, lost and shivering, and clinging together in want.

* * *

There are blunter conversations, the longer they're together.

As Molly slowly becomes used to his patience she begins to be more forthcoming about her desires. Her needs.

Her embarrassment ebbs as she seems to accept that she is well and truly what Sherlock wants.

It is through this hard-earned honesty that he discovers how thoughtless her former lovers have been with her person. (They have often hurt her through carelessness). It is through this honesty that he discovers her assumptions regarding what he wants and needs. (She thought that the only sex he'd be interested in would involve nipple tassels and riding crops). It is also through this honesty that he discovers roughness brings her no pleasure, something she informs him of with averted eyes and a face darkened with shame-

Her attitude is that of someone admitting to some great personal failing.

She seems surprised when he tells her he deduced it already- Surprised and puzzled too.

"Don't you mind?" she asks and Sherlock finds himself flummoxed by the notion that she thinks _that_ has anything to do with it.

"Your body is yours," he points out sensibly. "There's no point in my doing things you won't enjoy to it- That rather defeats the purpose of sex, doesn't it?"

Though his tone is arch, for a split second he feels a panic that she'll disagree. That there's something weird about his acceptance- Though he can't imagine what.

His worry is assuaged- nay, obliterated- however when she launches herself at him and proceeds to kiss him silly, right there on the couch of 221B.

He can feel her laughing through her kisses despite himself, he joins in.

"I'm so lucky to have you," she says when they pull apart, and there's wonder in her gaze. Sherlock doesn't understand it.

 _Surely he's the lucky one?_

But Molly says it so it must be true, and he finds the thought more warming than any case or adventure might be.

* * *

They talk, and the talking leads to action.

It leads to experimentation, which is not always successfully- Though often it is.

She ties him up, because he admits he likes it.

He takes her astride him, because she admits she likes that.

There are interesting choices made. New experiences. New adventures. She's happy to try things with him, she says, because she knows he'll keep her safe. He's happy to experiment too, kept safe in her acceptance. Her grace. And so-

Side by side they make love, his thrusts shallow, her moans erotic and soft.

Sometimes he sets her on her knees and slowly, achingly, takes her from behind; one hand is filled with her breasts, the other with the soft, warm wetness of her mound.

She pants for him and calls his name. She takes him in her mouth, long and slow and languid.

She takes him in her fist, quick and hot and fast.

He learns the sound of her, the smell of her, the taste of her when she's coming- He loves to watch her do so.

They curl around one another most nights and let themselves wander. Let themselves explore. Sometimes they still have to stop, to ask. To re-set...

It doesn't matter though, because they trust one another.

Sherlock knows he wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Six months to the day after that conversation on that conversation on Bart's rooftop, he sends Mary 22 long-stemmed white roses. (They're her favourite).

It's a thank you for her advice from him- And his (he hopes) soon-to-be-wife

John doesn't know why the flowers appear and she doesn't feel the need to explain, just sets them on the mantelpiece and then goes to look after Rosamund.

Someday she'll be the namesake of another little girl but she isn't to know that yet-

 _She's just content to have been of help._


End file.
